Hope Never Dies Read online

  3

  “Didn’t hear you come to bed last night,” Jill said.

  I stumbled into the kitchen around half past nine, weary from a night of bad sleep. My mind had been on fire with questions about Finn Donnelly. Every time I finally started to drift off, some little noise outside would startle me awake. Several times, I wondered if I hadn’t dreamed my entire encounter with Barack Obama.

  The lingering scent of tobacco in my hair said otherwise.

  Meanwhile, Jill looked beautiful and well-rested as always. She’d been up for who knew how many hours in the sunroom, enjoying her e-reader. She used to read paperbacks, the small kind they sold in grocery stores. Harlequins. A couple of years back, she’d switched to electronic books. Said she liked being able to adjust the size of the type, even though she missed all the shirtless men on the book covers. I could laugh along with this little joke, because I certainly didn’t feel threatened. See, your Uncle Joe had something those men would never have: a Presidential Medal of Freedom.

  “You fell asleep to the TV,” I reminded her. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

  She’d set out coffee and breakfast. The coffee was cold.

  “Hmmmm,” she said. She didn’t glance up from her bodice ripper. Jill didn’t know anything about Barack’s visit, as far as I knew. I didn’t plan on telling her that he’d stopped over. It was just better that way.

  The morning paper was on the table. The above-the-fold story on the front page of the News Journal was much ado about nothing, as usual. More White House drama. The current administration knew how to do one thing right: If you wanted to push through an unpopular agenda with minimal resistance, distract the bastards. Do something every day to grab the headlines—something big, bold, and preferably stupid—thereby banishing the dull stories about how you were systematically dismantling the country to the back pages with the Hagar comics.

  I flipped through the paper, pretending to read the headlines and a paragraph or two of each story.

  “Have you thought any more about the CPAP machine?” Jill asked.

  “No,” I said, dodging the question for the umpteenth time. My doctor had diagnosed me with mild sleep apnea. It could lead to sleep deprivation, which could explain why I’d been waking up later and later in the mornings. My doc had recommended a complicated gizmo that forced air up my nose while I slept. She showed me one of the devices in her office. It looked and sounded like Darth Vader’s mask.

  I returned to the newspaper. There was a small write-up on the train accident on the front page of the Local section, under the byline of the News Journal‘s crime beat reporter:

  MAN KILLED IN AMTRAK ACCIDENT

  WILMINGTON, DE—A man was struck and killed by an Amtrak passenger train approximately a mile from Wilmington Station around 8:23 a.m. Wednesday morning.

  Wilmington police identified the man as Finn Donnelly, 63, of Wilmington, Del. According to Amtrak officials, Donnelly was an Amtrak conductor but was off duty at the time of the incident. No passengers were injured.

  All inbound and outbound trains were halted Wednesday morning as local authorities investigated. The National Transportation Safety Board has announced its own investigation into the matter, a routine procedure for all railroad accidents involving loss of life.

  No further details were immediately available.

  No mention of the map.

  And no mention of Delaware’s favorite son, Joseph R. Biden Jr.

  I flipped to the obituaries. Finn’s funeral was Friday. Tomorrow. They used to wait a couple of days before dumping you in the ground. These days, it seemed like they wanted to shuffle you off this mortal coil before your body was even cool.

  I excused myself from the breakfast table. Champ followed me to my office, where I closed the door halfway—just enough to give me a warning if Jill busted in on me.

  The News Journal‘s story hadn’t been updated online. Somehow Barack had managed to keep the lurid details under wraps…for now.

  I didn’t expect to hear from him again. We’d had a great run together in office, but Barack had moved on to bigger and better things. He was too big for one country. He was too big for one best friend. He belonged to the world now. I told myself I was happy for him. But if that was really true, why couldn’t I shake the feeling that I’d been dumped the day after graduation?

  There was a knock at my office door. Champ’s head perked up. Jill had changed out of her robe and into her black jogging pants and a Race for the Cure tee.

  “I’m heading out for a run,” she said.

  Champ didn’t move. He was too much like me—a walker at heart. Especially when the weather outside was as nasty as the devil’s armpit.

  For a split second, I considered telling my wife about Finn’s accident. I couldn’t remember if she’d ever met him, though, and there was no sense ruining her morning jog with such grim news. It could wait until she got back.

  “Break a leg,” I told her.

  “You’re always welcome to join me.”

  I waved goodbye, and she blew me a kiss.

  Jill ran five miles every day, averaging nine and a half minutes a mile. I was more of a fourteen-minute-mile-on-a-treadmill sort of guy. Lately I’d been slowing down my pace. Sometimes I’d quit early because I felt out of breath.

  My doc said I was healthier than ninety percent of guys my age. Why didn’t I feel it?

  “What do you think, Champ? Should we go downstairs and walk a couple miles?”

  He stared blankly at me. Some dogs can run on treadmills, but Champ wasn’t one of them.

  I tied on my running shoes. Normally, I’d use my time on the treadmill to think through whatever was troubling me. Getting the legs moving supposedly has a synergistic effect with brain synapses (that’s what Malcolm Gladwell told me once). Today, however, I planned to watch some TV and zone out. I didn’t need to think through my troubles, because I’d already decided on a course of action: I’d tell Jill about the accident, of course, but keep the information about Finn’s map to myself. At least for the time being. It wasn’t like he’d been found with a gun or anything. There was no reason to worry Jill. These past few weeks, she’d been enjoying her newfound ability to go running without a Secret Service escort. I didn’t have a clue where we’d find private security that could keep pace with her.

  Besides, Finn was dead. Everybody knows that dead men can’t hurt you.

  Only the living can do that.

  4

  Just before eleven, I strolled into Earl’s Hash House down on 8th and Washington in Quaker Hill. It was a classic diner, the kind that only served one type of coffee: black. If you ordered an orange mocha Frappuccino, you’d be given a side-eye that would make you wish you’d never been born. At one point, presumably, Earl’s had been a new establishment, but nobody remembers when that was. It was old when I was a kid. It was even older now.

  Some people probably said the same about Dan Capriotti.

  He was waiting for me at the long counter. Dressed in a maroon leather jacket and blue jeans, the same outfit he’d been wearing since the early seventies. These days, his thick black hair was dyed and his sneakers were orthopedic. Otherwise, he looked much like he had the last time I’d seen him, more than a decade ago, right down to the dinged-up detective badge clipped to his belt loop. He’d called me that morning and said he had some information about the Donnelly case. Off the record.

  I’d just finished my walk and was about to step into the shower. “If it’s about the map—”

  He interrupted me. “It’s not about the map.”

  I didn’t know many cops down at the station these days. There’d been major turnover while I’d been out of town as Wilmington tried (unsuccessfully) to shed its image as Murder Town, U.S.A. Fortunately Dan and I went way back. If only he’d been the one to find the map. He could have called me dir
ectly and saved Barack the trouble.

  “You’re here by yourself,” Dan said, shaking my hand firmly. A cop handshake.

  “My wife’s got a class,” I said.

  “I meant no security. No Secret Service.”

  “I’m just a private citizen these days.”

  “You don’t seem too nervous for someone who might have been in the crosshairs of a madman.”

  I glanced around. The guy behind the counter was busy at the register.

  “Let’s find someplace more private to talk,” I said.

  We took a red vinyl booth in the back. My eyes flicked over the menu, which I knew by heart. Nothing ever changed inside these walls, which were plastered in graffitied dollar bills. I’d signed a few, once upon a time. They were still behind the counter somewhere.

  There were only a few other people in the diner. Mostly the old geezers who showed up day after day for coffee and toast. They’d bicker about the day’s news until they wore themselves out. I’d always seen myself becoming part of a crew like that someday. Me, Barack, W. Maybe Jimmy Carter, if he wasn’t too busy peanut-farming.

  The waitress stopped by to take our orders.

  “Pie à la mode,” I said. “Hold the pie, Deborah.”

  She’d heard the joke before. I still got a kick out of it. The good jokes never get old.

  “One scoop of vanilla for the wise guy,” she said. “And how ‘bout you, hon?”

  Dan tapped his coffee. “Just the worm dirt. I’m watching my figure.”

  After the waitress left, Dan leaned across the table. “So how well did you know this conductor?”

  “I used to ride his line. I knew him well enough.”

  “Did you know what he was into?”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “The toxicology results aren’t back yet, Joe, but it’s pretty likely he was high as a kite when the train hit him. He may have even been dead already. Now, the cause of death is listed as PENDING on the death certificate, but—”

  “Hold up. You’re saying he was on something? He didn’t even drink, as far as I know.”

  Dan shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t drink, but he definitely liked to party.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “We found heroin. A little baggie, in one of his pockets.”

  I fingered the rosary on my wrist. “That doesn’t make a lick of sense. A sixty-three-year-old man with a wife and daughter doing heroin? When he knows he’ll be tested as part of his job? And he’s so close to retirement age?” I was trying to speak in a hushed voice, but was having a hard time. “I’ll bet dollars to donuts you won’t find a trace of drugs in his system.”

  “And if I were a betting man, I’d take you up on that offer. Just because he’s been tested in the past doesn’t mean a thing. All it takes is some back pain and a prescription for oxy. Two or three months later, they move on to something cheaper. And the only thing that’s cheaper is heroin.”

  “When will you get the blood tests back?”

  “Six to eight weeks.”

  “Could you expedite the testing?”

  “That is the expedited time frame.”

  The waitress brought my ice cream and refilled Dan’s coffee. I tried to make sense of what he’d told me. Heroin used to be the drug of choice for jazz musicians and beatniks. Not anymore. Opioid addiction was a growing problem while Barack and I were in office. By the time we realized how widespread the problem was, it was too late. It had reached epidemic proportions. It was a new reality that I still wasn’t used to.

  “This investigation is being handled personally by Lieutenant Esposito,” Dan said.

  “A good cop?”

  “A little rough around the edges, but not as rough as I was. Word is she’s in line for the chief’s job, once he retires.”

  In all of Dan’s years with the force, he had never been promoted above detective. He was effective, but he made more headlines for his unorthodox methods than for his busts. He reminded a lot of people of Dirty Harry. Which was only fitting, since there were rumors that Clint Eastwood had based his performance on Dan Capriotti.

  He sipped his coffee. “Listen, Joe, we’ve been friends for a long time. I know the paper with your address is hinky. I know you’re concerned—”

  “More befuddled than anything.”

  “Then I’ll give it to you straight: forget the map for now. If this turns out to be anything more than a junkie passing out at the wrong place at the wrong time, I’ll eat crow.”

  “Finn Donnelly was no junkie.”

  “I guess we’ll see.”

  “You said Esposito’s handling this personally? Should I get in touch with her directly if I have questions, or…?”

  Dan nearly sprayed coffee across the table. “That’s the last thing you’d want to do. You’re better off going through me. She isn’t too happy about this whole thing, especially with Secret Service sniffing around.”

  Dan didn’t sound happy, either. Local police didn’t like it when the feds flew in and started throwing their weight around. Of course, the Secret Service wasn’t actually running an investigation. That was just a smokescreen. I could have told Dan the truth, but I didn’t want word to spread at the station that the “national security” storyline Barack and I had cooked up was an empty threat. At least not until after the funeral. Then they could talk all they wanted.

  “Thanks for meeting me, Dan. I wish I had something to share with you about the Service investigation, but that’s above my pay grade. All I know is that they ran some checks on Finn, and they all came back clean.”

  “If they found something, could you even tell me?”

  “If something’s classified, they’re not going to share it with me either. I’m just a private citizen.” I paused. “By the way, I’m sure you or one of your coworkers has also talked to Finn’s family. Do you know what they have to say about all of this?”

  “A couple detectives have been in contact with the daughter, but we’re keeping her in the dark. No one’s mentioning the drugs or the map to your house.”

  “So the daughter doesn’t know a thing. What about his wife?”

  “Are you joking?”

  “Swear on the grave of Jean Finnegan Biden, I haven’t heard a thing. Did they split up?”

  “It must have been a while since you last talked to Finn.”

  “Saw him briefly the last time I rode the Acela. Seven or eight weeks ago. We didn’t get a chance to talk, though.”

  “Huh. She’s still at the assisted-living facility.”

  “He never said a word about that.”

  “He didn’t tell you about her stroke?”

  “Not a word.”

  Dan set his coffee down. “She’s paralyzed on her right side, and unresponsive. Even if there was a break in the storm—even if she was suddenly able to say something as simple as ‘yes’ or ‘no’—I doubt she could help us.”

  I told him I’d let him know if I heard anything from the Secret Service—some stray fact or insight that might help him tie up the case and earn brownie points with his boss. The look of weariness on his face, however, told me that he wasn’t expecting a call. He was probably right about the map being nothing to worry about. If that was the only suspicious piece of evidence, I might have been able to put it out of my mind.

  But Finn? Involved with drugs?

  He was a teetotaler. Same as me.

  Something wasn’t right.

  Martin Luther King Jr. said the moral arc of the universe was long and bent toward the side of justice. By the time the universe got to righting the wrongs in Wilmington, however, I feared that it would be too late—not just for Finn or the city, but for us all.

  I left without touching my ice cream.

  5

  Inside the entrance of Baptist Manor wa
s a large aquarium that stretched a good ten feet down the hall. Swimming inside the tank were dozens of goldfish, each its own spectacular color. Brilliant orange. Deep red. Shimmering blue. I’d been to Baptist Manor several times before, but this—the aquarium, the fish—was new. It was both mesmerizing and depressing. Like most of the residents, the fish wouldn’t leave this place until they were belly-up.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  The secretary at the registration desk was waving to me. Her face lit up when she recognized me. I’d seen that look before. She was starstruck.

  If only women looked at me like that sixty years ago.

  She gave me a visitor’s badge and directed me to the third-floor medical ward.

  I passed a room where twenty or so residents were lounging in front of a big-screen TV tuned to Fox News. Half were snoring. The other half, I assume, had advanced dementia—it was their only possible excuse for not changing the channel.

  When I reached Darlene Donnelly’s room, the door was open.

  I rapped lightly and, hearing no voices, stepped inside.

  There was a sheer curtain dividing the room. Darlene’s bed was closest to the door. A much older woman was in the bed near the window. Both were asleep. This wasn’t a nursing facility—it was a departure room. Neither person was hooked up to any heavy equipment, so I guess that was a positive sign. Still, I was reminded of my visit last summer to the National Zoo with my grandkids. Two hours, and not a single animal awake. By the time we’d reached the exit, I’d been half asleep too.

  On a nightstand beside Darlene’s bed were dried flowers and sympathy cards. I pulled a chair to the bedside. I didn’t try to wake her. There was no point. I’d learned more about her condition from a doctor who’d seen her back in January. He wasn’t supposed to discuss it with me—HIPAA regulations and all that—but we went way back. Not only had Darlene’s stroke left her partially paralyzed, but she was also catatonic. She could open her eyes, but her thoughts were anybody’s guess.